


Timeline 29

by LovelyLittleGrim



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Confessions, Confrontations, Kissing, M/M, Post Season 4, Stubborn Eliot, body hopping, theyre both messes honestly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:21:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21995173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyLittleGrim/pseuds/LovelyLittleGrim
Summary: Quentin switches bodies with himself from Timeline 29 and wakes up in a pair of familiar arms. He hates how jealous he is of an alternate version of himself.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 16
Kudos: 98





	1. What he has and I do not

Quentin knows a bad idea when he sees one, it might not always seem like it, but he does. And this--mind jumping into one of their own bodies in an alternate timeline? It just screams disaster waiting to happen. But, like all of their bad ideas over the years, it’s the only one they have. Which, really is on par for their lives at this point. 

Dean Fogg isn’t being forthcoming exactly about timeline 29, he’s told them some things. Like, that none of them from their ragtag group of misfit magicians except for Quentin attended the first-year class. Everyone else had been failed or sent to a different university for magic in the hopes that it would keep them all alive. From the tight look in the Dean’s eyes, Quentin knows that none of them had made it out unscathed. 

“Now, that really is all I can tell you, it’s not as though I have a comprehensive list from every timeline,” Dean Fogg grouches. 

“Fine,” Alice says snappishly. “We’ll just have to make do. If Quentin is the only one of us who attends--”

“Margo and Eliot were both in attendance as well, though how much they know or are involved in that timeline I do not know. Jane might not trust either of them.” 

Margo makes a face. “I’m not going. I already had to trample through a demon desert and some asshole thought it would be a good idea to give me bangs when I wasn’t myself. I have filled my quota of fuckery this year.” 

A glance towards Eliot provides Quentin with a less than thrilled face. Eliot has also been through enough. Alice must see that as well because she turns her sharp eyes onto Quentin. “Quentin will go. He has experience with body-hopping.” 

They all look at him, so he nods even though he’s curious as to why Dean Fogg himself can’t go. Wouldn't that make more sense? He and Jane appear to be pretty buddy-buddy. So, why does it always have to be one of them putting everything on the line? 

“I’ll go,” Quentin tells them tiredly. Someone has to and why shouldn't it be him? 

From the corner of his eye, he sees Eliot’s lips go thin. “You almost died the last time you went somewhere for us, Q. Or do you not remember the mirror world?"

“Yeah, and so did you,” Quentin shoots back, but there’s no heat in his voice. They're not short on time, but arguing about this is stupid. No one else is stepping up and honestly, if it's down to him or Eliot, Quentin would rather go. He's not sure he can handle having someone else 's mind in Eliot's body again. “It’s… it’s fine. I can do it. Jane knows me anyway. I'll get what we need and then come back. It shouldn't take more than a few hours." 

So, the bad idea is settled and ready to go. Quentin just hopes no one comes close to dying again. 

* * *

Jumping his mind to a different version of himself is such a strange feeling. Like being on a carnival ride that you didn’t know would go upside down until suddenly your hanging in the air with your stomach in your throat and blood rushing to your head. It’s followed by an almost pop--or maybe a click?-- the sensation of nearly slotting into place, but not quite fitting even though you’re the same shape. It’s not unpleasant, but it’s not something that Quentin enjoys. 

The body he wears now is heavy with sleep, eyes blinking blearily in the soft glow of morning light. There’s a body curved around his, someone’s chin laid atop his head, soft breaths bringing their chests together--in, out, all in tandem. 

There’s no Alice in this timeline for Quentin to fall for, so he’s surprised that he’s not alone. He shifts slightly, trying to tip his head up to see who he’s sharing a bed with. The body against his isn’t feminine, the chest is hard and smooth, missing the pillowy softness of full breasts. 

Quentin is surprised by how unsurprised he is. Before Brakebills he had never entertained the idea of being with a man in any capacity that falls under more than just platonic friends. Now, it’s not such a shocking thought. He’s fallen into bed with a man more than once—and not just with Eliot, though, he’s not sure his sexcapades as Bryan should really count. He’d learned a lot from the men he’d slept with, but those experiences feel almost like a lie. 

The person pressed against him shifts ever so slightly and Quentin goes perfectly still. He needs to shake off the exhaustion that clouds this body, get out of the bed and seek the answers he and his friends need, but he doesn’t know how to do that without disturbing his bed partner. He doesn’t want an awkward repeat of the last time he body hopped, he still cringes at the thought of how poorly he had evaded Alice’s hungry hands, the lame excuses that had fallen from his lips. He grimaces. There’s no way he can handle something like that again. 

“Q? You awake?” The voice is painfully familiar, sleep rough and fond. “You went all stiff… and not the fun kind.” 

Quentin swallows heavily. Heart pounding he tips his head further up and stares at Eliot. “Uh, morning.” 

Eliot looks amused.” Morning.” 

Quentin spares a sudden thought for the other version of himself, Quentin29’s mind trapped in Quentin40’s body. He hadn’t thought of what other him would do after being thrust into a room full of strangers, where the only people he would know would be Eliot and Dean Fogg. Dean Fogg who is a cryptic asshole on his best days and Eliot… Eliot who has barely looked at Quentin since the end of their last almost apocalypse five months ago. He feels the familiar swell of guilt build up inside his chest. 

He hopes his Eliot is gentle with Quentin29, hopes his friends don’t overwhelm him and make him shut down.

Something bumps against his nose. He blinks, eyes crossing to look at Eliot’s face against his own. Eliot pulls back slightly when he sees Quentin staring at him and smiles, sleepy and soft. 

“You’re thinking entirely too much this morning,” Eliot says lightly, long fingers slipping beneath the sheets to skate along Quentin’s stomach. 

It’s then that Quentin realizes he’s fully naked, they both are. His body aches in places that dredges up memories he’s told himself to forget, but never could. He lets Eliot’s hand map out the lines of his chest, his stomach, lets it curve over his hip. Eliot’s thumb digs into the light V of his hips, pressing in a way that promises something more if Quentin wants and… oh… oh god does Quentin want. So much that he has to close his eyes and breathe for a moment. 

He places his hand over Eliot’s and squeezes but doesn’t pull Eliot’s hand away. He wants to lean into the touch, into Eliot’s, wants to reach out himself, wants to kiss him, taste him, relearn his body, but… but this isn’t his life and this isn’t his Eliot. Quentin knows it wouldn’t be right. He doesn’t know what this version of Eliot has been through, doesn’t know if Mike happened here, but he does know he could never do anything to hurt Eliot. Lying about who he is, letting Eliot think he’s someone he’s not… he just couldn’t do that. Can’t do that. 

“We… wait, we should talk, El.” 

Eliot goes still, expression almost flattening from the gentle look he’s worn still Quentin first saw him here. “You’re not breaking up with me are you?” He asks and there’s an almost lilt to the words as though he’s trying for humor but failing. “Because… doing it naked in our bed isn’t the best idea.” 

Quentin blinks in surprise. Break up? That would mean that they’re dating--as in they’re together for more than just sex. Quentin feels oddly hurt by this revelation, hurt and jealous. This Quentin has Eliot in a way that Quentin doesn’t--won’t, because his Eliot isn’t…. He doesn’t… 

“Um, no, no, not breaking up,” Quentin says hurriedly after realizing that he’s just been staring at Eliot. That’s not my--I mean I’m not…”

Eliot arches a perfect brow. “Please do go on Quentin.” 

“I’m not your Quentin, I mean, I’m from an alternate timeline. I just came here because I need something from someone that’s no longer alive in my timeline.” 

“So you had to find a timeline where they’re still alive.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Hmm.” Eliot’s fingers move to grip his hip, gentle but firm, thumb tracing patterns into his skin. “So then what is my Quentin doing?” 

“Probably panicking.” 

Eliot’s lips purse in thought, hand squeezing a little tighter. “Am I in whatever timeline you came from?”

Quentin doesn’t know why he wants to know that but he nods anyway, a lock of hair falling into his eyes. “Yeah.” 

“Then my Quentin will be fine,” Eliot says simply. “I’m sure other me has experience with talking you down.” 

Oh. Oh, this Eliot thinks that… 

“Uh, we’re not…” Quentin trails off. The together left unsaid. 

Eliot looks surprised. “We’re not?” 

Shaking his head, Quentin says, “No… I wanted to be but…” 

There’s a furrow to Eliot’s brows now, confusion evident in his dark eyes. “And I don’t?” 

“You don’t,” Quentin confirms as he pushes himself up. The sheets slide down his naked body, soft and silky, they nearly make him shiver. He’s always wanted sheets like this but he wouldn’t even know where to buy them. 

Eliot doesn’t move except to stretch out across the bed, bones popping with it as he watches Quentin. “You seem oddly comfortable being in bed with me for someone whos not dating me. Are we friends with benefits where you’re from?”

“No,” Quentin says and then pauses to add. “I mean, we’ve had sex before, a threesome with Margo.” He looks around the floor for clothes that might belong to him. “And there was this whole other lifetime that I lived with you in Fillory where we were together, but that didn’t happen in a way. It’s, uh, complicated.”

“So it sounds.” He makes a curious little noise, somewhere between amused and intrigued. “I wonder how the other me is handling my Quentin. Poorly I imagine.” 

I’m sure we’re both fine,” Quentin says as he spots a button up at the edge of the bed that looks his size. Its fancier than anything he would ever buy for himself but if Quentin29 is dating Eliot29 then he supposes he would dress better with Eliot guiding him. 

He turns, facing away to button up the shirt and blinks in surprise when he catches a glimpse of himself in a large mirror. His hair is long here, longer actually and healthier looking. There’s even--he runs a hand through the strands-- highlights?” 

Arms wrap around his waist and pull him flush against a warm chest. “I’m guessing your hair doesn’t look like this?” Eliot reaches up to tug a strand, punctuating his words. 

“I cut it.” 

Eliot meets his eyes in the mirror. “Tragic.” 

He pulls a little harder and something like heat swirls in the pit of Quentin’s stomach. When Eliot lets go, Quentin feels thrown off and entirely too hot under his clothes. He wonders how kinky this body has grown to be under Eliot’s ministrations. His fingers almost fumble the buttons at his chest when he catches sight of bitemarks spanning down his neck, each one a perfect indentation of teeth. There’s enough to tell Quentin that he had more than enjoyed himself last night. The thought makes him flush hotly. 

“How long are you here for?” Eliot asks, watching him watch himself.

Quentin clears his throat and turns to him. “Not long, I just need to speak to someone and then you can have your Quentin back.” 

Eliot nods and Quentin can see the edges of relief in his eyes, he bends down to scoop up a pair of pants that he settles into Quention’s hands. “Don’t forget to say goodbye before you go.” 

Quentin nods and takes the pants, he struggles into them, unused to such form-fitting jeans. “I will,” he promises, as Eliot heads for what can only be an ensuite bathroom. 

“Good, we need to have a little chat.” He waves his hand towards the door. “Go, get your information, Q, I’ll be waiting.” 

Quentin tries not to watch the long expanse of Eliot’s legs as he disappears into the bathroom, tries but doesn't succeed. 

He rolls his eyes at himself when the bathroom door clicks closed and the shower turns on. He doesn’t have time to stand here fantasizing. His friends are waiting and the world needs saving. He smacks his cheek lightly and gets a move on.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s surprisingly easy to track down Jane Chatwin and get what he needs from her. She’s not surprised to find that he’s not from this timeline—not surprised but exponentially weary-looking about the revelation. He almost breaks and tells her what timeline actually succeeds but he’s smart enough to know that’s on all accounts a bad idea. He’s not entirely sure it _would_ change any outcomes of his life, but, just in case, he remains tight-lipped and wary only nodding along as she speaks, remembering everything he needs. 

There’s the explicit desire to draw upon the magic that brought him here and run back to his own time. This world feels too quiet, empty with the knowledge that other than Eliot, Margo, and Julia there’s no one else he has a tie to here. He’s missing that quintessential thrum that he feels at all times just beneath his skin. The thrum of his friends, of his family, their unique magics and their presence. 

The Quentin that belongs to the body he’s wearing doesn’t know this of course, but he does. _He knows_ and it makes him ache inside. He doesn’t have a Penny--or even a second Penny. He doesn’t have a Kady or an Alice or a Josh. Quentin almost thinks he can’t imagine a world without them in it by his side, but... well. He’s kind of in that world right now. 

So, Quentin almost runs. _Almost._

He finds himself back at the apartment building, letting himself really take it in for the first time since his mad dash from it hours earlier. For being a place that Eliot Waugh lives, it’s not as ritzy as Quentin thought it would be, but it’s so very far from anywhere that Quentin himself would choose. It’s almost some delicate cross between the two of them.

He vaguely remembers what floor and apartment he’d barreled out of early this morning. He actually hesitates between two doors unsure which one is correct. He shouldn’t be wasting time on this but he also can’t get himself to leave when he promised Eliot he would say goodbye. 

“Damn it,” he mumbles, shoe scuffing at the hallway carpet. He resigns himself to an awkward situation as he picks one of the doors and knocks on it loudly. 

_Be the right one_ , he thinks adamantly at it as he waits. 

When it swings open revealing a long, lanky body, Quentin actually breathes a sigh of relief. He really didn’t want to make Quentin29’s life awkward by bothering the neighbors. It’s hard to find good, peaceful ones in any part of New york. 

Eliot leans against the door, a single perfect brow arches as he drags his eyes down Quentin’s body. “Not my Quentin?” 

Quentin gives him a little nod, feeling sheepish now that he hadn’t just left. 

He gestures for Quentin to come in. “You came back,” he says lightly, no telling tone in his voice so Quentin doesn’t know if he’s smug or surprised or disappointed. 

“I promised.” Quentin slips into the apartment, shoulder just grazing Eliot’s body. 

“So you did.” Eliot swings the door closed and locks it with a simple flick of his fingers. He moves towards the kitchen, “coffee?” 

Quentin shakes his head. He’s never liked coffee. He’s tried to. He’s wanted to. There’s just something about it he can’t stand. When he glances over at Eliot he sees a small smile, his hands working elegantly as he floats mugs from the cabinet and sets a coffee pot to work. 

“How about some hot chocolate,” he asks, already setting water to heat on the stovetop. Quentin watches him with his heart in his throat. It’s such a domestic scene to witness. Not that he hasn't seen it before, he’d lived nearly fifty years with Eliot once. It shouldn’t catch him so off-guard, and it shouldn’t make him so homesick for something that may or may not have actually happened. Still. It’s like a punch to his chest to know that it’s not his Eliot he’s watching. It’s not his Eliot fixing him a cup of hot chocolate, not his Eliot smiling softly, not his Eliot that’s in love with him. 

He’s so fucking stupid. He should have left. This goodbye is already shaping up to hurt. 

He forces himself to look away, eyes flitting about the living space. He takes in the tasteful furniture that’s screams of Eliot and the nerdy knick-knacks that point accusing fingers at Quentin29, and he tries not to let it make him feel breathless. They live together. Completely and perfectly intertwined. Their things a mishmash of odd perfection. 

“Q?” 

Quentin turns to Eliot, watches him pat at the stool next to him at the kitchen island. “Come join me.” 

Quentin tells himself one last time to go home, thinks it at himself so vehemently it’s hard to not listen. Then he joins Eliot at the island, fingers wrapping around his mug of hot chocolate. 

It’s quiet for a long moment, both of them sipping at their steaming mugs, both of them mulling over what to say. It’s not awkward like Quentin had thought it would be. It’s almost easy, companionable. He thinks he should be surprised, but he just isn’t. 

Isn’t this just supposed to be a goodbye? What more could Eliot want from someone who isn’t his Quentin? He swallows heavily and peeks over at Eliot, sees Eliot staring right back, a contemplative look on his face. Quentin startles, fingers tightening around the ceramic between his palms and looks away, eyes focusing on the marble counter. 

“Tell me about myself,” Eliot says at last. 

Quentin frowns into his mug, “You know yourself.” 

“I know _me._ What I don’t know is Eliot from timeline-whatever, but he sounds a bit like an idiot.” 

Setting down his mug, he turns back to Eliot. Is he allowed to tell this Eliot about other Eliot? Quentin doesn’t think it could fuck anything up. “What do you want to know about him?” 

Eliot hums lightly, fingers tapping at the counter as he thinks. “Everything, but let's start with that life the two of you had together and go from there.” 

“Why?” Quentin asks in surprise. “That life doesn’t really count. We don’t know if we actually lived it or not.” 

Eliot smiles, chin resting in the cup of his hand as he leans against the islands counter, eyes fixated on Quentin. “Just indulge me, Coldwater.” 

Quentin looks down at the little droplets of hot chocolate on the countertop and thinks about that life. He’s speaking before he can even think about what to say. He tells Eliot-- not all of it, because there are fifty years to parse through--but all the important parts from then. And then, because Eliot asks, he tells him what happened right after too. 

Eliot is staring at him hard. “ _And I said what?_ ” 

Quentin heaves a heavy sigh, slouching in his seat. He’s gone through this twice already. “You said it _wasn’t us_.” 

“Fucking christ on a tortilla,” Eliot mutters sounding like Margo, hands rubbing at his face. “I’m going to drive myself to drink.” 

Louder, he says, “listen up, Q. Your Eliot is an absolute idiot and I honestly don’t know if he even deserves you.” He makes a frustrated sound, hands twitching as his sides like he wants to reach for a cigarette. 

“He doesn’t want me, Eliot, so I don’t really think it matters if either of us thinks he deserves me,” Quentin says and he knows he sounds bitter about it. It’s hard not to be, especially when he knows with definite proof that in another life… this life… _he has Eliot_. 

“Oh, Q,” Eliot’s voice is soft, one large hand reaching up to cup the back of his head. “He wants you, trust me, he wants you like he’s never wanted anything else in his life and that’s probably why he’s terrified.” 

Quentin starts to shake his head, but Eliot’s fingers tighten. 

“It’s true, Quentin,” he says, giving a small smile. “Trust me. I know.” 

Quentin's heart stutters in his chest at the fond look in Eliot’s eyes, the gentle cup of his hand at the back of Quentin’s head like it belongs there. An ache grows deep inside his soul. _He wants this_. He wants what this Quentin gets to have. He wants Eliot. 

With a sigh, Eliot lets his hand trail down and around to Quentin’s cheek, his long-elegant fingers brushing at Quentin’s skin. “Other me is an idiot and I’m sure my Quentin is setting him straight—well not straight, _never straight_ —but definitely forcing him to get his shit together. Because you and me... we’re inevitable, Coldwater. I knew that the moment I first laid eyes on you.” 

He presses a gentle kiss to Quentin’s forehead. “Now, go. Tell _your Eliot_ again that you should be together. Make him listen this time. Proof of concept and all that beautiful jazz.” 

Quentin nods, standing up from his seat. He raises his hands in front of him and starts to work out the hand signs but stops, suddenly horribly curious. “Um, wait, did… did you date Mike?” 

There are other questions, of course, like how did you beat the beast when you have only two friends? What happened next? Did you deal with the Library? A loss of magic? The monster? Where’s Margo? Is she alive? Safe? But this one… as stupid as it might seem to others, is important. Quentin needs to know. 

Eliot’s brow furrows in confusion as he gathers up their mugs. “Mike? As in the evil alumni beast? That Mike? ” 

“Yeah.” 

“Fuck, no,” Eliot says with a laugh. “ _He was evil._ ” 

Quentin nods, hands still stretched out in front of him mid cast. “Yeah, but he was hot and no one knew he was evil.” 

“Well, yeah, but I still didn’t date him,” Eliot says, like it’s completely ludicrous. “Not from a lack of trying on his part, though, of course, I’m quite a treat after all. But... no, Quentin.” 

He must see the curiosity in Quentin’s face because he smiles and it’s stupidly fond, his eyes going almost unfocused as he recalls something. “We had a party the night I met Mike and-- during said party--you got very, _very_ drunk and confessed your adorably-sappy feelings all over me. And, well, there really was no contest after that... It was always going to be you.” 

Quentin thinks about how he’d probably gotten drunk on purpose just to say it. Because Eliot is all kinds of beautiful and Quentin is just Quentin. He wishes he had that type of bravery, even drunkenly so. 

“Then you puked all over my favorite shoes,” Eliot adds, nose wrinkling. “And we spent the rest of the night in the bathroom keeping you from dying of alcohol poisoning.”

Question let’s out a startled laugh. “and you still chose me?” 

Eliot smiles, reaches over with one hand and tugs a short strand of hair. “Go home now, Q. There’s an idiot waiting for you.” 

Quentin goes. He’s glad that at least here Eliot was saved some heartbreak. (Even if it did cost him a nice pair of shoes.).

**Author's Note:**

> [My Tumblr](https://lovelylittlegrim.tumblr.com)


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